


Duet

by bexpls



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Endeavour Morse, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, F/F, F/M, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Season/Series 05, Set between Quartet and Icarus, also something that is sorely missing from Endeavour: lesbians, basically this is what i want from an episode of Endeavour, bi Morse but he doesn't know he's bi yet, morse bangs enough women he should bang a dude once in a while, oh also there isn't enough george/shirley in the series so there's some of that here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23898013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexpls/pseuds/bexpls
Summary: In the early hours of the morning, a young student is murdered in the office of an esteemed Oxford professor. There are no witnesses, no evidence, and no suspects except for the professor, who seems to have fled in the night. It seems like an open-and-shut case, done and dusted in the space of a single day.But strange things keep happening at Mayfield College. What is the connection to a spate of break-ins at the college? Does it have anything to do with the Master's pressure group? And who is the young man who can't seem to leave Morse alone?
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Original Male Character(s), George Fancy/Shirley Trewlove
Comments: 17
Kudos: 34





	1. 1. An Unlocked Room Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the magnificent Skeiler!

**Tuesday**

Dr DeBryn is gently closing the oak office door behind him when the detectives walk up to it. He spots Morse and gives him a pointed look, saying “Better not.” In addition to his briefcase, he’s carrying a pair of disposable gloves; which are covered in blood, Morse notices, and immediately wishes he hadn’t looked so closely.

Strange, who is next to Morse, says, “Not a pretty one, then?”

“Slit throat,” says DeBryn. “Very neatly, too. Severed both the jugular and the carotid artery in one sweep. Blood on the floor, the walls, the expensive first editions.” He does that cocky smile of his. “Young man. Student. According to first responders, his name was Smythe. Died between five and eight hours ago.”

“Between one and four a.m.,” mutters Morse, checking his watch. “What was he doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Not for me to know, is it?” says DeBryn.

“But it was murder?” says Fancy, who is behind Morse and Strange.

“Well, it wasn’t suicide, accident, or an act of God,” says DeBryn, and Morse smiles. “Constable Trewlove is next door with the man who discovered the body. Shall we say two o’clock for the post-mortem? Gentlemen.” He raises one eyebrow and Morse and Strange hastily step to either side to let him pass by.

They’re in a long corridor with several offices and common rooms and the like coming off it. The body is in the last room on the left, which is marked ‘Prof. Clare Hollander’, and it is into this office that Strange goes. He courteously closes the door behind him before Morse can look inside the office, though his exclamation of “Jesus Christ!” is clearly audible. Morse grimaces. He and Fancy backtrack a couple of paces until they come to the door before the office.

Despite there not being a sign on the door, this room is probably used for tutorials or seminars, or possibly it’s a small lounge or common room. There are three red armchairs and a matching sofa arranged neatly, and the walls are lined with full bookshelves. There’s also a modern-looking stone fireplace in the corner. Trewlove is standing next to it, writing carefully in her notebook. The other occupant is a young man sat in one of the armchairs, drinking a cup of tea.

“Morse,” says Trewlove as the detectives enter. Her eyes flit to Fancy as he closes the door behind him, just for a moment. “Constable. This is Mr McIntosh.”

The man in the armchair looks up from his cup of tea. “Edward McIntosh, yes.”

“Detective Sergeant Morse, Detective Constable Fancy,” says Morse. “You discovered the body?”

“I did,” says McIntosh. He has a heavy Scottish drawl, marred by his slightly shaking voice. His hair is dark blonde and falls unkempt about his ears. His face, round and soft, is pale.

“At what time?” Morse thinks he looks too old to be an undergraduate, although he does dress like a student; white shirt, oversized blue denim jacket, slightly garish red corduroy trousers. Most likely a humanities student, Morse decides.

“Quarter past nine. I wanted to see Professor Hollander about my thesis. That’s her office, you see, where Joseph is - oh God.” He sets his tea down precariously on the arm of the chair, swallowing sharply. “Sorry. I feel dreadful.”

“It’s quite a shock,” says Morse. “We believe that Mr Smythe died very early this morning. Can you think of any reason why he would have been in the office at that time of night?”

“None,” says McIntosh. “I mean, he lives in college, but why he would be sneaking around at night, I don’t know. And I definitely don’t know why he would be in the professor’s office.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I doubt he even knows her. She’s English Literature, he’s Chemistry.”

“Did you know him well?” says Fancy. He’s been trying to make eye contact with Trewlove for the whole time he and Morse have been in the room, without success. If he was a more paranoid person, he might think she’s ignoring him on purpose. He kind of thinks that anyway, of course.

“Not especially,” says McIntosh, oblivious to the tension between Fancy and Trewlove that is so obvious even Morse can feel it. “He was an undergrad, I’m post. And like I said, he reads Chemistry, I read English.

“But you knew his name and what he studied,” Morse points out.

“It’s a small college,” says McIntosh. “I suppose I might have talked to him in the common room once or twice. Had some mutual friends or something. You pick this stuff up.” He shrugs and avoids Morse’s eye.

Morse brushes past it. “Could you take me through exactly what happened?” he says. He glances at Fancy, who catches his eye and then hastily starts getting his notebook out.

McIntosh sighs. “I was up all last night, struggling with my thesis. I have to defend it in a couple of weeks, you see. I decided to go and see the professor in the morning.”

“It wasn’t a scheduled visit?” asks Fancy.

“No, we meet every Thursday normally, but I often drop by to see her on a whim. I woke up and went straight to the office. Got there about quarter past nine, like I said. I knocked but there was no answer.”

“So you tried the door?” says Morse, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, she always keeps it locked when she’s not inside,” replies McIntosh, looking a little affronted, “without fail. So I thought if it was open, it meant she was in there and hadn’t heard me. I tried it and it _was_ open, so I went in. I saw the -“ He stops. “Sorry, do you have a cigarette?”

Morse fumbles about in his coat pockets until he finds a pack. He hands a cigarette over.

“Thanks,” says McIntosh, taking out his lighter and spending a few seconds trying to light the cigarette with his shaking hands. He finally manages it and takes a long drag. “What was I saying? Oh, right, the blood. I saw the blood first. Thought the professor had had an accident and left in a hurry. I took another step into the room and saw Joseph.” He pauses to take another deep drag. “Got out of there as fast as I could. Alerted the first people I came across, some people going to a tutorial or something. Then I went to be sick. Then when I got back the police were already here.”

Morse waits while Fancy finishes scribbling everything down. “You said Hollander always keeps her office locked?” asks Morse.

“Without fail.”

“Who has a key to it?”

“Only her,” says McIntosh, without hesitation. “She’s funny about it. Doesn’t even let the scouts in to clean it.” He pauses. “Oh, well, Professor Post has one, of course.”

“Who’s Professor Post?” says Fancy, at the same time as Morse says “Why ‘of course’?”

McIntosh smiles slightly. “She a Chemistry tutor. She and Professor Hollander are, erm, good friends.”

There is something very strange in McIntosh’s eyes when he says that. Morse can’t quite figure out what it is.

“Do you know where we might find Professor Post?” says Morse.

McIntosh shakes his head. “She might be having breakfast in the Great Hall, I suppose.”

“What does she look like?”

“Erm,” says McIntosh, frowning as he tries to picture the woman who he barely knows. “Short brown hair, early thirties, probably about five foot five, more than likely wearing a lab coat.”

Morse ponders this for a moment. If she teaches Smythe’s subject, she might know him. She at least could be the person connecting Smythe and Hollander together. But where does McIntosh come into it?

Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just chance that he discovered the body. Nothing about his story is suspicious or hard to believe. The only thing is, Morse’s instinct tells him McIntosh knew Smythe better than he claimed. But he can hardly accuse their first witness of lying about something so small. Thursday tends to get annoyed when he does that.

“I think we’re done then,” says Morse. “One last thing. Where were you between one and four a.m. this morning?”

“That’s when Joseph…?” He trails off. “At home. In bed.”

“Alone?” says Fancy, appearing not to notice the faux pas.

“Afraid so,” says McIntosh, with another one of those tiny, knowing smiles.

* * *

They leave McIntosh with another cup of tea and a WPC, and reconvene with Strange outside Hollander’s closed office door.

“Do we know where Professor Hollander is?” Morse asks Trewlove.

“No one we’ve spoken to has seen her since yesterday afternoon,” replies Trewlove. “She doesn’t seem to be anywhere in college.”

“Try and find her,” says Morse. “Ask everyone.”

“I’ll go and pick up the governor,” says Strange. “He’ll be wondering where you are.”

Morse looks at his watch and grimaces. Strange is right, it’s late. “All right.” He looks at Fancy and tries not to show his disdain for having to spend even more time with the constable. “Constable, come with me. We need to speak to Professor Post.”

* * *

They find Post exactly where McIntosh said she would be: in the dining hall, having breakfast. She’s alone at one of the long tables, eating a slice of toast while contemplating the empty bench opposite her. She vaguely glances up as Morse and Fancy walk into the dining hall, and continues eating without paying them any attention even as they walk straight up to her.

“Professor Post?” says Morse.

The professor swallows her bite of toast and looks up at them. She’s a young woman, fitting McIntosh’s description perfectly; her hair is light brown, short and curly, and she’s wearing a white lab coat despite her being in a dining room instead of a chemistry laboratory. “I am she. Who are you?”

“Detective Sergeant Morse,” says Morse, showing his ID, “and Detective Constable Fancy.”

Post licks her lips and motions for Morse to sit down on the bench next to her. He does so, and Fancy awkwardly takes the bench on the table behind. “This is about Joseph Smythe, I gather?”

“You’ve heard about that?” says Morse.

“I couldn’t fail to. It’s all over college.” She gives her watch a curt glance, and on instinct Morse looks at his own - it’s ten o’clock by now. “Probably all over the university.” She has a soft Welsh accent, but she speaks rather aggressively, like every word Morse has said has been accusatory or impolite. “If you’re going to ask me if I knew him, I didn’t.”

“Even though you teach his subject?” asks Fancy.

Post shoots him a glare. “I am. But I only tutor third and fourth years, and Smythe was second. I’d probably met him a few times, but I didn’t _know_ him.”

“We gather he didn’t know Professor Hollander, either,” says Morse.

Post seems to stiffen up at the mention of Hollander’s name. “Not that I was aware. She never mentioned him to me.”

“You two are close?”

“We’re very good friends,” says Post, still in that aggressive tone. “We’re two of only four female dons here. And the other two are about eighty. So of course we spend a lot of time together.”

Of course, Morse thinks. That’s the second time ‘of course’ has been used in relation to Hollander and Post’s friendship. He doesn’t press it, though. “You have a key to her office, I believe?”

Post shrugs. “Yes.” She fishes around in her coat pocket for a moment and produces a small brass key, which she drops onto the table between her and Morse. “What of it?”

“Nothing of it,” replies Morse, trying his absolute best not to match her tone. “Except that Professor Hollander always keeps her office locked, so we’re to understand, and so there is no way Mr Smythe could have gotten in there without either you or Professor Hollander unlocking it for him.”

“I see,” says Post, a nasty smile playing on her lips. “So we’re your two suspects. Delightful.”

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Fancy starts, but Morse interrupts him:

“We just wondered if you knew where Professor Hollander might be. No one else seems to know.”

“I don’t keep tabs on her,” says Post, after a moment’s thought. “I haven’t seen Clare since yesterday lunchtime. She had no plans to go anywhere anytime soon, as far as I know.”

Morse glances at Fancy, who is dutifully copying down everything in his notebook. He sighs. “Very well, Professor. Just for the record, where were you between one and four a.m. this morning?”

“In bed, asleep?”

“Alone?” says Fancy. Again. Morse tries not to groan.

Post fixes Fancy with a cold stare. He doesn’t even look up from his notebook. “Yes, Constable. I was alone.”

* * *

Trewlove returns to Hollander’s office just as Smythe’s body is being carried out, draped in a bloodstained white sheet. She steps to the side of the corridor as it passes, opposite Morse and Fancy, who are watching the proceedings. Or rather, Fancy is watching; Morse is making a detailed examination of the floor. He looks up hopefully when he notices Trewlove.

“Any joy?” he says.

“Afraid not,” says Trewlove. “I found a student who said she was in her office late last night, around eleven - he saw the light on under the door. No sightings since then.”

Morse nods. “All right.” He calls one of the sergeants over. “I want a search of Hollander’s room,” he says. “Any clue as to where she might have gone.” The sergeant nods and goes off.

“At least we have a suspect,” says Fancy.

“One who’s gone AWOL,” replies Morse.

“We have Professor Post, too.”

“You think she could have done it?” says Trewlove, though she seems to be asking Morse rather than Fancy.

“Physically? Not sure,” he says, not noticing Trewlove’s subtle eye-roll. “But I don’t see what her motive could be. She says she didn’t know Smythe.”

“She could be lying,” says Fancy. “She teaches Chemistry, she was more likely to know him than Hollander was. Besides, she had the ability to get into the office, and her alibi doesn’t really hold up.”

Morse almost smiles. Something is clearly rubbing off on Fancy - lately, not all of his suggestions have been entirely nonsensical. “All right, we’ll keep tabs on her. But our priority should be finding Hollander. It’s her office, and there’s no way anyone except her or Post could have gotten in - unless someone stole the key off her,” he realises as he says it. “But why would a third party choose to kill someone in Hollander’s office, particularly if it was probably locked?”

“To implicate her?” suggests Fancy. “If someone did steal her key, maybe they have her tied up somewhere. Or they’ve killed her, even.”

Morse tries not to think about the possibility of having two dead bodies in the space of one morning.

“There’s something else,” says Trewlove. “Why leave the office unlocked? Obviously it being unlocked wasn’t unusual, so the body could have lain there for days without being discovered. Hollander could have written a note saying she was going away for a few days - or someone could have faked one. They would have enough time to get far away. Why let it be found so quickly?”

“Maybe they wanted it to be found,” says Fancy quietly.

* * *

Later, Fancy and Trewlove are finishing up with the interviews while Morse sorts out the scene of crime. He is relaying instructions to the officers when a small, polite cough behind him causes him to turn around. A tall, greying man is standing in the doorway to Hollander’s office, wearing a long black robe and carrying a small attaché case. He looks at Morse expectantly.

“Can I help you?” says Morse.

“I rather hope so,” says the man. “I arrive in my college to find that a student has been murdered. Apparently you’re the officer in charge?”

“Hardly ever,” says Morse. He gets out his ID again. “Detective Sergeant Morse, Mr…?”

“ _Sir_ Edgerton,” says Morse. “One of us should have been to find you.”

“Yes, you rather should have,” says the Master. He speaks in a similarly hostile manner to Professor Post - or maybe not so similarly. Her vitriol was defensive; his is just the voice of a man who knows he’s the most important person in the room and wants everyone else to know it too. Morse forces himself to be polite.

“Did you know the deceased? Joseph Smythe?”

“Quite well,” says the Master, and Morse thinks, hallelujah, someone who actually knew the kid. “He rather flew under my radar in his first year, but at the start of this year’s Hilary term I successfully recruited him into my little pressure group.”

“How’s that?”

“Oh, just something I cooked up with the Dean last summer,” says the Master, looking rather pleased with himself. “It’s called C-FOL: Christians for Our Lord. We protest certain new laws passed by Her Majesty’s government.” He pronounces it ‘See-fol’; he also puts emphasis on the word ‘certain’, but Morse can’t catch his meaning.

“I see,” says Morse. “And was Smythe a - erm - devout follower of yours?”

“He was,” says the Master. “I’m sorry he’s dead. He was a good student and a good Christian.”

“I’m sure,” says Morse. “What about Professor Hollander? Can you speak as to her character?”

“Impeccable,” replies the Master. “She was at the college before I became Master, otherwise I might not have employed her - not due to her sex,” he affirms, in a manner that makes Morse certain that it _is_ the reason, “just because there are other, better people in her field. But she does her job well. Everyone likes her. Exam results for her students are among the best in the university.”

“What about Professor Post?”

“Much the same,” says the Master.

“What about Edward McIntosh?” says Morse, more for completeness’s sake than anything else.

To his surprise, the Master adopts a look of distaste - well, outright disgust, really. “The type of student this college could do without, if I’m candid. Performs well academically, but his presence is not good for the college’s image. I only allowed him as a DPhil student because Professor Hollander insisted. It’s people like him that are the reason for C-FOL.”

“I thought you said it was a pressure group?” says Morse, startled.

The Master raises his eyebrows. “We don’t just protest against laws,” he says, with a finality that tells Morse he is unlikely to answer any further questions.

* * *

Later that morning, Professor Antonia Post enters her office, and in a rush to gather up some laboratory notes, manages to knock over a stack of papers that were on her desk. She curses and bends down to pick them up, sweeping them all together haphazardly.

The small, folded note that had been pushed under the previous night was gathered up with the rest of the papers, unseen.


	2. 2. All-Ports Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some context for a scene in this chapter: there are some deleted scenes from Quartet (the episode that takes place immediately before this story) that, based on photographs, showed Fancy and Trewlove having an argument somewhere, and they appear to be acting somewhat frostily towards each other in the episode itself. So, in this story's canon, that argument happened and it resulted in them not talking to each other for a while.
> 
> Beta'd again by Skeiler, thank you sm!

**Tuesday**

By the time Morse and Fancy return to the station, Strange has briefed both Chief Inspector Thursday and Chief Superintendent Bright on the situation - what he knows of it, anyway. Morse updates them on Post’s and Sir Edgerton’s statements.

“The search of Professor Hollander’s rooms didn’t turn up anything useful,” says Morse. “Except, a few personal items are missing: keys, purse, identification.”

“Sounds like she’s run away,” says Thursday.

“Or someone’s cleared out her rooms to make it look like she has,” suggests Fancy.

“Either way, our first priority is to find her,” says Thursday. “She’s either a prime suspect, or a key witness.”

The words hanging in the air are ‘or the next victim’, but no one wants to say them.

“Sergeant, put out an all-ports warning on her,” says Bright to Strange, who nods and goes over to his desk.

“There’s something bothering me about all of this,” says Thursday. “No one seems to have a motive. None of the people you’ve spoken to so far even knew Smythe. Except the Master, you said?”

“Yes,” says Morse. “He said Smythe was in some pressure group that the Master set up.”

“What type of pressure group?” says Bright.

“He was a bit vague,” says Morse, “but its name is ‘Christians for Our Lord’, so I can guess at the basic idea.”

“Does he have an alibi?” asks Fancy.

“In bed, at home. Said his wife could confirm it. But honestly, no one has a proper alibi. All anyone can say is that they were asleep.”

“No motives, no alibis,” says Bright, sighing. “So our only lead is this Professor Hollander, yes?”

“Seems so, sir,” says Morse.

* * *

At two o’clock, Morse, Strange, and Thursday go over to the hospital to collect the results of the post-mortem. Dr DeBryn has, as ever, covered the body with a sheet from the shoulders down - for Morse’s benefit, since he never bothers when it’s only Strange and Thursday attending.

Morse stays well away from the metal table anyway. Instead, he lingers by the smaller table a few feet away, on top of which are the contents of the dead man’s pockets: a set of keys, a notebook and pen, and, interestingly, a gold locket with the letter ‘C’ engraved on the back. Seems unlikely that someone called Joseph Smythe (with no middle name - Morse checked) would have a locket with the letter ‘C’ on it, besides which only a woman would be caught dead wearing it. Maybe Smythe has - had - a girlfriend.

Meanwhile, DeBryn is showing Strange and Thursday the body’s throat wound in close-up detail, while explaining that the throat was cut from left to right.

“Which implies the murderer was left-handed?” Strange says uncertainly. “Might narrow down the suspects.”

“We’d need suspects for that,” mutters Morse, setting the locket back down.

“Normally I would agree, Sergeant,” replies DeBryn. “However, I will draw your attention to these.” He folds the sheet back, exposing the man’s upper torso. “Morse?”

Morse reluctantly goes over to the body, keeping his eyes trained on the man’s chest instead of on the gaping wound in his neck.

“See this?” continues DeBryn, indicating a light purple ribbon of bruises across the chest, just below the collarbone. “I would suggest that Mr Smythe was grabbed from behind, held against the body of the killer, and the throat was cut like so.” He mimes cutting his own throat, using his right hand to cut from left to right. “Therefore, the killer was _right_ -handed.” He replaces the sheet and smiles brightly at Strange. “Or ambidextrous, of course.”

Morse moves back towards the side table and picks up the final item, set apart from the others - a small, razor-sharp pocket knife. The blade and handle are sticky with half-dried blood. He holds it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, by more or less the only areas the blood has not reached.

It was found earlier that day, after Morse’s impromptu conversation with Sir Edgerton. One of the scene of crime officers found it while they were cleaning up Hollander’s office. It had been thrown under a bookcase.

DeBryn notices him. “Ah, yes. Our murder weapon.”

“Is that definite?” says Morse, studying the blade. It looks sharp, but it also looks like the kind of weapon you would choose if you were going to stab someone, rather than slit their throat. He puts it back down carefully.

“It’s a fairly common style of knife,” says DeBryn, “but I’d say it does match the wound. Coupled with the fact that it was found at the crime scene, covered in the victim’s blood, I would put the chances of it being the murder weapon at, oh, a neat eighty-five percent.”

“We found fingerprints on it,” adds Strange, “though there’s no way to tell if they’re Professor Hollander’s.”

DeBryn raises his eyebrows. “So, you _do_ have a suspect?”

“One that we can’t find,” says Morse.

DeBryn looks amused by this. “What is this Professor Hollander like?” he says. “I’m only asking because it takes a specific type of person to slit another person’s throat.”

Morse looks from Strange to Thursday, and back to DeBryn. “We’re not sure. Fastidious, maybe. Good at her job. She’s a professor of English Literature, so -“

“She?” says DeBryn.

Thursday glances at him. “Why, could a woman not have done this?”

“On the contrary,” says DeBryn, with a conviction that Morse hadn’t expected. “One could easily have done this. The cutting of the throat would not require a lot of physical strength, though it would have to be a powerful slash. But to hold him in place while cutting his throat is a different matter. He’s twenty years old, small and slight; still, overpowering him would have been no easy feat.”

“So how can you be so sure a woman could be the killer?” says Thursday, frowning.

DeBryn smiles. “I bring you to the crux of the whole matter.” He steps away from the body to position himself, rather dramatically, in front of the tray of medical instruments. “Mr Smythe’s throat was cut peri-mortem.”

Morse, Strange, and Thursday all look at him blankly.

“At or around the time of death,” finishes DeBryn. “Meaning, Mr Smythe was already dead or dying.”

None of them speak for several seconds, trying to process what the doctor has said. Finally, Thursday says:

“So, the throat wound wasn’t the precise cause of death?”

“Correct,” says DeBryn. “It’s like that case last year - the one where the young man was strangled while already dying of an LSD overdose. The throat wound is incidental. Death would have occurred anyway.”

“Then what _was_ the cause of death?” asks Morse, just as the phone in DeBryn’s office next door starts to ring.

“Heart failure,” says DeBryn simply, going into his office and raising his voice so the detectives can still hear him. “Not sure what brought it on, though. He didn’t have any underlying medical conditions, at least not according to his records. I’ve sent a blood sample for testing, which will show up any poisons or toxins.” He picks up the phone. “Cowley General, Dr DeBryn speaking.”

Poison, Morse thinks. Two murderers, possibly? In the case of Barry Finch, the victim DeBryn was talking about, the LSD overdose was accidental. Could this be something similar?

His train of thought is halted when DeBryn pokes his head around the office door and says, “Chief Inspector? Constable Fancy for you.”

Thursday follows DeBryn into the office and takes the phone. “Fancy?”

“We found Professor Hollander,” says Fancy, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Well, border control at Heathrow Airport found her. She was trying to board a plane to Germany.”

“When was this?”

“About fifteen minutes ago, apparently. They’re bringing her to the station now.”

* * *

Through the small window in the door to the interview room, Fancy can see Thursday and Strange sitting on one side of the table, while Clare Hollander sits on the other side. Technically, he’s supposed to be finishing a report about a recent string of burglaries in Jericho, but that won’t take very long. And anyway, this is much more interesting.

Hollander is older than he expected, closer to forty than thirty. Her hair is much darker and longer than Professor Post, and she keeps it tied back from her face. She’s also more - well, Post is skinny, flat-chested, almost masculine in appearance, whereas Hollander is decidedly not.

Fancy hears someone behind him and steps away from the door, turning around to make it seem like he’s waiting outside rather than listening in.

Turns out, the person behind him is Trewlove.

“Er -“ says Fancy, ducking his head. “Hi.”

“Just wanted to see what was going on,” says Trewlove, not smiling at him. She goes past him to peer through the window for a second. “Has she talked yet?”

“I can’t really hear through the door,” replies Fancy. Immediately he thinks, idiot, she obviously isn’t in the mood for jokes, especially not off him.

But Trewlove smiles and steps back from the door so they’re facing each other. “Why doesn’t she have a lawyer?”

“She didn’t want one,” says Fancy. “Maybe she thinks it would make her look guilty.”

“She looks guilty enough already,” remarks Trewlove.

“Good point.” He looks shyly at her. “I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

Trewlove sighs. “I was never _not_ speaking to you, I just needed a bit of space. I told you that.”

“Yeah, I know.” In reality, she hadn’t phrased it quite as diplomatically as that, but he isn’t going to push it. “So, have you had enough space yet?”

Trewlove laughs. “Yeah, I suppose I have.” She’s about to apologise, but she stops herself.

Fancy seems to notice, at least. “I’m sorry for shouting at you.”

“I’m sorry for shouting first,” says Trewlove. She smiles. “And loudest.”

“You _definitely_ did not shout the loudest.”

“I definitely did.” She pauses. “Want a second try at the pub?”

“I think they might chuck us out on sight,” replies Fancy.

“All right, other ideas?”

Fancy thinks for a second. “That French restaurant on Cornmarket?”

“Your salary must be quite a lot higher than mine.”

“That’s a good point,” admits Fancy. “Takeaway at your place?”

“Are you inviting yourself around now?” says Trewlove, but she’s smiling as she says it.

“I don’t dare take you round mine, I’d be fighting the rest of the lads off,” says Fancy. He stops. “Sorry, I didn’t mean -“

“Apology accepted, but you’re right. Mine it is.”

* * *

Clare Hollander, to her credit, came quietly. She is the complete opposite of Morse’s description of her friend Antonia Post; she is polite and soft-spoken, yet shrewd and evasive. For example, when Strange asks her why she decided to go off to Germany at the drop of a hat, she smiles sweetly at him and replies:

“I wanted a holiday.”

“In the middle of term?” counters Thursday. “Without telling anyone where you were going?”

“Sure.” She has the hints of a Liverpool accent, but has obviously spent many years in the south of England. Thursday doesn’t like her much. She obviously knows more than she’s saying, which makes her polite, butter-wouldn’t-melt attitude all the more insufferable.

“All right then,” says Thursday, changing tack, “did you know Mr Smythe?”

“I’d never met him,” replies Hollander. “I’m sure he was a nice young man, but I’m mostly concerned with Literature graduates, and Mr Smythe neither studied literature nor was a graduate.”

“What about Edward McIntosh?” says Strange. Morse told them all about McIntosh’s slightly evasive nature when it came to Smythe. Bright thought he was reading too much into it, but as far as Strange is concerned, a lead is a lead. Especially when Morse is the one giving it to him.

“Edward?” says Hollander. “What does he have to do with it?”

“He discovered the body.”

“I see,” says Hollander. “Of course I know him. I’ve known him for a few years, since he came to Oxford. He went to the University of Edinburgh, you know, but he came down here to do his doctorate.”

Thursday doesn’t miss the slight disdain in her voice when she says the phrase ‘down here’.

“Will he get it?” asks Strange.

“I’m certain of it. He’s chosen to do his thesis on a subject matter that is so controversial as to be thoroughly ground-breaking.”

Neither Strange nor Thursday bother asking what that means.

“So the way you see it,” says Thursday instead, “the only thing connecting you and Mr Smythe is the fact that he was found dead in your office?”

Hollander shrugs. “I guess so.”

From the plastic tray at the end of the table, Thursday picks up a brass key. “This is the key to your office. The officers who arrested you found it in your handbag.”

“That’s right,” says Hollander, after a cursory glance at the key.

“According to everyone we’ve asked,” says Strange, “you always keep your office locked when you’re away from it. Aside from the one belonging to Professor Post, this is the only key, correct?”

“Yes,” says Hollander, sounding uncertain.

“How come you keep it locked? Apparently you’re more or less the only person at the college who does.”

“Habit, I suppose. At my old university, break-ins were common.”

“So,” says Strange, “if you always keep your office locked, and you and Professor Post have the only keys, how did Smythe and his killer get into your office in the middle of the night? There’s no sign of forced entry. The window won’t open far enough for anyone to get through it. So how do you explain it?”

Hollander doesn’t say anything, just keeps her face impassive.

“Unless the murderer was you or Post, of course,” adds Strange.

At this, Hollander’s eyes widen slightly. She sits forward and starts drumming her fingers against the table.

This is usually the moment when they ask for a lawyer, thinks Thursday. But instead, Hollander says:

“It was me.”

* * *

Thursday and Strange try and fail to not look visibly surprised. “It was?” Strange manages.

“Yes,” says Hollander. “I -“ She hesitates. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t mean to cut someone’s throat open?” starts Thursday, but Hollander cuts him off.

“It wasn’t like that.” Her composure is gone; she looks like she’s going to cry. “I was working late in my office. Lost track of time a bit. It got to about half one in the morning before I realised quite how late it was. I wasn’t even close to finishing my work, so I went to the common room to make some coffee. I didn’t lock my office, I was only gone a few minutes. When I got back -“ She swallows. “When I got back, Smythe was in there. In my office. He was rooting through the drawers of my desk. I think he took my locket - I swear I left it on the desk, but I couldn’t find it afterwards.”

Thursday leans forward. “Afterwards?”

“Yes,” says Hollander. “So I got there and he was stealing from me. He must have been waiting for an opportunity to get into my office. Not that I usually keep valuables in there, mind. So I confronted him. He picked up the letter-opener from my desk and threatened me with it. I told him he couldn’t possibly get away with it.

“A second later I realised what a stupid thing to say that was - you see, if he killed me, there wouldn’t be any witnesses, and no one would know it was him. He must have realised that too. He - he lunged at me. I managed to get behind the desk. I didn’t know what to do, but I remembered my knife - I always keep it in my trouser pocket, in case of emergencies, so -“

“Emergencies?” says Strange.

“In case I’m attacked in the street,” says Hollander coolly. “It’s happened more than once, you know.” She takes a deep breath and stares down at the table. “So I took out the knife without him seeing it. He came towards me again, and I managed to grab him. I don’t know - I don’t know what happened, he was struggling against me, and I was holding the knife - I just -“ Her voice wobbles. “It was warm, and it was all over my hands. It was just _pouring_ out of his throat, I don’t know how I did it. It was horrible.”

The terrified look in her eyes is so terrible that whether or not Thursday believes her about the rest of it - which he’s not sure he does - he believes that she was horrified at what she did.

Still, it’s a story and a half. Neither he nor Strange speak for a minute.

“If it was an act of self-defence, as you claim,” says Strange eventually, “why did you run away? You must have changed your clothes, packed a bag, all the rest. Why didn’t you just go and get help?”

“Because I knew how it would look,” replies Hollander. She looks Thursday in the eye for a second before dropping her gaze. “Exactly like this.”

* * *

“She _can’t_ be telling the truth,” says Morse incredulously, after Thursday and Strange tell him and Superintendent Bright about Hollander’s confession. “Self-defence? How do you slit someone’s throat in self-defence?” He tries to imagine it. Sure, Smythe is short, but so is Hollander. Overpowering him, whether she was holding a knife or not, would not have been easy. And even if she had, he can’t fathom what angle she could have been holding it at that would have led to Smythe’s throat being _accidentally_ cut. If he’d been stabbed, maybe Morse could buy it. But this - not a chance.”

“It’s feasible,” says Strange, though in such a way that Morse can tell he doesn’t really believe it. “Smythe did have a locket on him - had a ‘C’ on the back, you remember? Could be ‘C’ for ‘Clare’?”

“But it doesn’t add up with Dr DeBryn’s findings,” Morse persists. “He says Smythe was already dead or dying when his throat was cut. How does Hollander explain that?”

“Maybe the doctor was mistaken,” says Bright.

“DeBryn doesn’t make mistakes,” replies Morse. Thursday gives him a look, but Bright doesn’t make anything of it.

“Normally, I would agree,” says Bright, “but we have a confession, so our job is done. All we can do now is wait for the case to go to trial.”

Morse sighs, but nods. He’s right, there isn’t anything else they can do. No witnesses, no evidence. He supposes they should all be grateful Hollander confessed. Not that she was really in a position to feign ignorance, but it would make everything a lot more difficult if she stuck to her original statement; that she had no idea about any of it.

“Back to work, then,” continues Bright. “Strange, I want you to call Inspector Forward at County and ask him for an update on those car thefts. Morse, I need you to arrange for Mr Smythe’s possessions to be brought to evidence storage. Fancy, I…” He stops as he realises Fancy isn’t there. “Where is Constable Fancy?”

“I haven’t seen him -“ starts Thursday, but at that moment Fancy comes into the office, breathless and holding a handwritten note. Everyone turns to look at him.

“Sorry, sir,” he says to Thursday. “Message from the front desk.” He walks over to Bright and hands him the note. “Professor Hollander has a visitor.”

* * *

Bright sends Morse over to collect the visitor. Professor Post is waiting in reception, impatiently tapping her fingers on the desk and glaring at the officer behind it. She looks up as Morse enters the room, and her nostrils flare.

“You again,” she says. “Whatever. Apparently Clare’s been arrested.”

“That’s right,” says Morse.

“Bloody disgrace. She hasn’t done anything.”

“Actually, Professor,” says Morse calmly, “she just confessed to killing Mr Smythe.”

All of the anger and animosity drains out of Post’s face. She turns nearly white. “What?” She blinks and shakes her head, recovering her senses. “That’s impossible.”

“She says it was in self-defence -“

“That’s _impossible_ ,” repeats Post, not even listening to him. “She didn’t do it, I’m telling you.”

Morse doesn’t bother to argue with her. “It’s out of our hands. It’s up to the courts now.”

Post shakes her head. “What did you do to make her say that? Is she all right? I want to see her. Do you hear me? I want to -“

“You can see her,” says Morse quickly. “I’ll take you down now.”

“Oh,” says Post. “Thank you.” She bites her lip and allows Morse to direct her down the corridor that leads to the cells.

Post is silent during the walk, but Morse can almost feel the rage coming off her. She cranes her neck as they pass by every cell. When they reach the one with ‘Hollander’ chalked on the small board next to the door, she tries to go straight in. Morse has to tell her to wait outside while he speaks to Hollander.

“She has to agree to see you,” he tells her.

“Of course she wants to see me,” says Post, glaring at him, but she waits outside the door while Morse goes in.

Hollander is sat on the bed, playing with the sleeve of her jacket. She looks up when Morse enters.

“Who are you?”

“Detective Sergeant Morse,” says Morse. The small form of Hollander on the bed is almost pitiful. With her dark blue cotton dress and flat black shoes, he can’t think of anyone who looks less like a killer. “You have a visitor.”

“Who is it?” says Hollander. Her voice is thin, her lips dry.

“Can I get you some water?” says Morse.

“Who is it?” repeats Hollander.

Morse sighs. “Professor Post. She’s waiting outside.”

“Antonia?” says Hollander, a note of panic creeping into her voice. “She’s here? Now?”

“Yes, she’s just outside -“

“Tell her to go away,” says Hollander quickly.

Morse frowns. “Are you sure? She said -“

“I don’t care. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see anyone.” She looks terrified all of a sudden. When Morse doesn’t move, she starts shouting: “Did you hear me? Tell her to go away!”

“Okay, all right.” Morse holds up his hands and backs out of the cell, closing the door behind him.

Post, who is on the other side of the corridor, eyes fixed firmly on the door, immediately moves to go in.

“I’m sorry,” says Morse, “you can’t see her.”

Post stops in her tracks. “Like _hell_ I can’t!”

“She said she doesn’t want to see you,” says Morse, probably sounding as confused as he feels.

“ _What?_ That’s _horseshit_.”

“There’s no need for obscenities,” Morse tries.

“ _Horseshit_ ,” repeats Post. “I want to see her!” She tries to get to the door, and Morse has to step in front of her.

“Professor, I don’t want to ruin either of our dignities by having to carry you out of here.”

Post looks as if she’s going to tell him he’s welcome to try, but she stops. Suddenly, she looks upset instead of angry. She opens her mouth to say something else but nothing comes out. After a moment, she goes back the way they came, back towards the front desk.

Morse exhales.

* * *

“Wonder why she didn’t want to see her?” says Fancy, chewing on a pencil.

“I don’t know,” says Morse. “Post seemed to think she’d be eager for it, but Hollander looked like she’d rather jump out of the nearest window.”

Fancy shrugs. “Weird.”

“Maybe she didn’t want her friend to see her like that,” suggests Trewlove. The three of them are alone in the office. They can hear Post next door in Thursday’s office, giving him grief about prisoner’s rights or something. “Maybe she doesn’t want her to think she’s a killer.”

“Shouldn’t have killed someone, then,” says Fancy absently.

“I still don’t believe her,” says Morse. “I don’t see how Smythe’s death could have played out the way Hollander says it did.”

“Mr Bright told us it’s the end of it,” Trewlove reminds him.

“I know, I know,” says Morse, “and I’m going to leave it alone. I just…” He trails off.

“What?” says Trewlove.

“I can’t help but think we haven’t heard the last from Mayfield College,” says Morse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't even written the first draft of chapter three yet, but it will be coming at some point in the hopefully-near future. and then it will get hella, hella gay.


	3. 3. Return to Mayfield College

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by Skeiler as ever!

**Sunday**

It’s been a slow day for Morse, having been lumbered with the Sunday shift - Fancy requested the Saturday shift last week, Thursday never comes in on Sundays for anything less than murder, and Strange mysteriously requested leave weeks ago. All he told Morse was that he was going over to Devonshire on Friday evening and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday morning. His secrecy ended up being for nothing as Morse found a letter which confirmed Strange’s registration to a weekend cookery course in Devon. Morse asked him to learn how to make a decent chili con carne, which for some reason made Strange a bit miffed.

So, Morse was left alone in the office without so much as Constable Trewlove dropping in for a chat. Not that he minded at first. He was perfectly content to spend his time with crosswords, but when the morning stretched into the afternoon without so much as a purse-snatch to occupy his time, he started to get very bored indeed.

It isn’t until half past five, half an hour before he can go home, that the telephone on his desk rings, and Dispatch is on the other end.

Incident at Mayfield College. A number of break-ins.

So that’s where he is now, taking statements from the various people involved. The first person the attending constables point him to is one Professor Michaux, a Chemistry professor.

“It was only the Chemistry students who had their rooms broken into,” Michaux is explaining to Morse. He is probably close to seven feet tall, and has curly brown hair that almost brushes the ceiling of the common room. The same common room that’s right next door to Professor Hollander’s empty office, its usual occupant still in a cell at Cowley Road.

“Have you any idea why these students may have been targeted?” says Morse.

“Opportunity,” says Michaux simply. “This morning, myself, another tutor, and the vast majority of our Chemistry students travelled to London to visit the Science Museum. Academic enrichment, you see. We got back about an hour ago, and one by one the students reported that their rooms had been ransacked.”

Morse checks his watch. An hour ago was about quarter to five. He writes that in his notebook. “Was anything taken?”

“Nothing valuable, apparently, though nobody can be completely sure. You know what students are like, always borrowing things, losing things.”

“Mm,” says Morse. “What about your room, had that been broken into?”

“No, my and Professor Post’s rooms were untouched.”

Morse stops writing. “Professor Post?”

“Yes,” says Michaux, frowning slightly. “The other tutor who came on the trip. You know her?”

“We met on Tuesday,” mutters Morse.

“Oh, the business with Joseph Smythe? God, that was dreadful. He was my student, you know.”

“Yes, I think one of us took your statement at the time,” says Morse with a sympathetic smile.

“It’s so strange about Clare Hollander,” continues Michaux, staring wistfully into the middle distance. “I never would have thought she could… well, anyway, we’re talking about today’s crime.” He chuckles. “Two crimes in one week, what will Sir Edgerton think?”

“He knows about the break-ins, I assume?”

“Oh, I expect so. That is, I personally haven’t told him about them, but he could hardly fail to notice the police presence, could he?”

“I suppose not,” says Morse, privately hoping he won’t get accosted by the Master again. “Well, I’ll need a list of all the students who were on the trip, and all the ones whose rooms were disturbed.”

Michaux nods. “Easy enough. The two lists will be identical. And like I said, it was the vast majority of our chemists who came on the trip.”

“Not all?”

“No, no,” says Michaux, “not all. Joseph was meant to come, but - well, you know - and a third-year student felt ill this morning, so she stayed behind.”

“Her name?” asks Morse.

“Letitia Caine,” replies Michaux. “One of Antonia’s students. She suffers from migraines, so I’m told.”

“Any chance I can speak to her?”

Michaux grimaces. “One of her friends looked in on her earlier. I’m told she’s really in no fit state for interviews at the moment.”

Morse sighs. “All right. In that case, I’d like the lists, please.”

* * *

By the time Morse and the uniforms have collected all twenty statements - not including Letitia Caine’s, since she cannot be roused from her migraine - it’s almost half past six, and way past the time to clock off. There’s no chance of getting the scene of crime officers over to the college before nine a.m., nor is there any point in notifying Bright or Thursday until he sees them in the morning. Instead, he asks if he can use the telephone in the porter’s lodge, and rings the station to let them know he’s finishing his shift.

He's walking under the archway to leave the college when he hears someone call out behind him.

“Sergeant!”

Morse turns to find Edward McIntosh striding across the quad, dark blonde hair askew, carrying a stack of books in his arms. He smiles widely when he sees Morse has noticed him.

“I thought it was you,” says McIntosh when he reaches Morse. “Sorry, are you rushing off somewhere?”

“No, not at all,” says Morse. “I was here investigating the robberies in college.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard about them. What’s the verdict? Do we have a cat burglar in our midst?”

“No idea, sorry,” says Morse with a wry smile. “No one saw anything. We’re going to send the forensic team over in the morning.”

McIntosh nods. “Fair play. Anyway, I wanted to ask you if there’s any more news about the professor?”

“Hollander? None at all, sorry.” Bright had told him on Saturday that Hollander’s trial wouldn’t be for another three weeks at the earliest. She’s been a quiet customer so far. Which cannot be said for Professor Post, who regularly comes to the station, attempts to visit Hollander, then yells at Inspector Thursday when Hollander refuses to see her.

McIntosh looks disappointed. “Shame. I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to finish my doctorate without my supervisor.” He nods to the stack of books in his arms. “There’s only so many times I can reread _A Shropshire Lad_ before I start running out of ideas.”

Morse’s eyes slide over the spines of the books; there are titles by A.E. Housman, W.H. Auden, John Betjemen, and Oscar Wilde, and those are just the spines he can read.

“A varied lot,” he observes.

“There are common themes,” says McIntosh quietly. “Which is the annoying thing. The only other Literature professor here is - well - I don’t think he’d really appreciate the contexts behind some of these poems. Not like Clare did.”

Morse frowns at the use of Professor Hollander’s first name, and McIntosh seems to realise what he’s said. He quickly continues with, “Housman’s my favourite of the bunch.”

“I love his poetry,” says Morse, pretending he didn’t notice what he assumes is a Freudian slip. If McIntosh was having an affair with Hollander, it’s hardly his business. He clears his throat. “ _Ensanguining the skies / How heavily it dies / Into the west away…_ ” He breaks off when he realises McIntosh is chuckling to himself. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” says McIntosh. “I’ve just always found that stanza too depressing. I much prefer the first. “ _How clear, how lovely bright / How beautiful to sight…_ ”

Morse listens to him recite the rest of the verse, hearing McIntosh’s melodious intonations and inflections more than the words themselves. He doesn’t even realise McIntosh has finished the stanza and has just asked Morse a question until McIntosh coughs expectantly.

“Sorry?”

“Do you fancy a pint?” McIntosh repeats. “I was going to work on my thesis, but, well, you know. We can talk about Housman.” He looks Morse up and down. “Unless you’re still working?”

“No, I’ve just clocked off,” says Morse.

“I thought a policeman was always on duty,” says McIntosh, a smile playing on his lips.

“That goes out of the window with the promise of a drink.”

“Sounds about right.” He nods to his pile of poetry books. “I just need to return these to the library, then we can be off. What do you fancy, the White Horse or the Lamb and Flag?”

* * *

They ended up in the Lamb and Flag, which is fairly busy for a Sunday evening. They found a table in a quiet corner and proceeded with the poetry conversation.

For as long as there was poetry to talk about, anyway. Morse quickly found that McIntosh already knew all the fun little facts about the poems and poets that Morse was offering up. The conversation drifted elsewhere, but still, it continued on for hours.

Morse is finishing up the story about his recently-ended relationship with Claudine; McIntosh is very interested in his old girlfriends for some reason, though is dodging all questions about his own. Besides, Morse feels awkward asking. If McIntosh _is_ in a relationship with Clare Hollander, he can’t be feeling too great about her being a murderess.

“So, yeah, she left about three weeks ago,” says Morse. “And she’s the, er, most recent one.”

“You seem to have a bit of a… turbulent history with women,” McIntosh remarks.

“I guess so,” says Morse with a smile.

“I’d give it up, if I was you,” says McIntosh quietly.

“What, sorry?”

McIntosh coughs loudly. “I had it in my head that you wouldn’t be allowed to come out for a drink with me. You know, you might be fraternising with the enemy?”

“What do you mean?” says Morse, tracing his finger around the rim of his empty glass. He’s only had about four pints and isn’t even a little bit drunk, but somewhere along the line he became so enthralled with McIntosh’s company that he forgot to buy another drink.

“Aren’t I technically a suspect?” asks McIntosh.

Morse shakes his head. “In what case? Smythe’s murder is solved, and the investigation on the break-ins hasn’t really started yet. Unless there’s another crime that you’re not telling me about.”

McIntosh doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway, I don’t want to talk about work,” says Morse.

“Too depressing?”

“You could say that,” says Morse. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Oh, where to start? I’m a very interesting person, you know.”

Morse smiles. “Where did you grow up?”

“Uh, Inverness at first,” says McIntosh, “then when I was nine we moved to Edinburgh, so we could be nearer to my grandparents.”

“And you went to the University of Edinburgh, right?”

“How did you know that?” says McIntosh with a smirk.

“Hollander mentioned it when we questioned her,” says Morse.

McIntosh smiles and nods slowly. “Yeah, I was an undergraduate there. But I always wanted to study at Oxford. So far, it’s been pretty good. Hollander’s an amazing supervisor, we… we understand each other.”

“What, you - you both like the same poetry?”

“Yeah, something like that,” says McIntosh. “I’m really going to miss her.”

“I’m sorry,” says Morse after a moment.

McIntosh gives a hollow laugh. “That she murdered someone? Yeah, me too.”

“If it’s any consolation, she says it was in self-defence,” says Morse. “If the court believes her, she won’t get be in prison very long. Maybe not even at all.”

“I can’t wait forever,” says McIntosh. “I mean, my PhD funding will run out someday.” He starts chewing on his nail. “Sorry, I know it seems like all I ever do is talk about my thesis, but it’s important to me, you know?”

“Yeah, I understand,” says Morse.

If he didn’t think McIntosh and Hollander were sleeping together before, he does now.

* * *

Morse doesn’t even realise that he and McIntosh have been talking for nearly five hours until the barman calls for last orders. Despite the fact that neither of them have had a drink in hours, McIntosh seems to think that Morse is so drunk he needs escorting home. At first, he offered to call Strange to pick Morse up, before Morse remembered about Strange’s jaunt to Devonshire.

They walk in silence for a while. Eventually they reach Morse’s house, and Morse fumbles around for his key. McIntosh lingers at the end of the driveway.

“So, I’ll head off, then,” says McIntosh.

Morse is busy turning his pockets inside out, looking for the key, and barely hears him. “Uh, yeah.”

McIntosh takes a few steps forwards, up the driveway. “I have a long day tomorrow. I’m meeting with a potential new supervisor.”

“You talk about your thesis a lot, don’t you?” says Morse. “God, where is the bloody key?”

“It’s very important to me.”

Morse realises that McIntosh is standing right behind him, and turns around. _God_ , McIntosh is tall. And barely two inches away from Morse.

While Morse stands there, unsure both of what is happening and what to do about it, McIntosh slips a hand into Morse’s back pocket.

“McIntosh, what are you…?”

“Edward,” whispers McIntosh. His face is so close to Morse’s.

Morse swallows. McIntosh - Edward - removes his hand and holds up a key.

“This is what you’re looking for?”

“Probably,” says Morse, not even looking at the key.

Edward moves closer, so that their bodies are pressed together. He quickly looks left and right, up and down the street - a practised move, by the look of things. Then he dips his head down and slowly presses his lips against Morse’s.

It’s over in a flash. McIntosh pulls back almost immediately, a look of fear on his face. He studies Morse anxiously.

“Is that okay? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” He trails off when Morse doesn’t say anything.

Morse takes half a step backwards. “I - I thought you were sleeping with Professor Hollander,” he says lamely.

McIntosh gives a hollow laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

Morse shakes his head.

“Huh. Well, no, I’m not interested in Clare.” He shrugs. “For obvious reasons.”

“Give me my key, please,” says Morse stiffly. McIntosh’s face falls even farther. He hands over the key without a word. Morse turns around and jams the key into the lock.

“I’m sorry,” says McIntosh again. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“Neither do I,” says Morse quietly, not looking at McIntosh. “Goodnight, Edward.”

“Night, Morse.”

Morse doesn’t wait to see if McIntosh has left; he just gets into his house as quickly as possible and locks the door behind him.

Thank Christ Strange wasn’t home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about* to get Homosexual
> 
> *in probably like three months while I write the next chapter because I have no motivation atm!


End file.
